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| Blood and cream | |
| By TRACEYshep1 | ||||||||||||
| 07 May 2007 | ||||||||||||
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Hi, this is my first story for over two years. Had terrible problems writing and was on the verge of quitting. Any useful comments welcome. Blood and Cream. I have to find a way to finish mother off. Everything I tried so far has failed. But killing her will mean touching her. That is unless I try shooting her, or hiring a professional hit man to drive a stake through her heart. On my own there will be no argument about who has the last cream cake. I’m going to send Mother away like father. He packed his bags and had it away on his toes on a one-way ticket ‘up north’. Tyres squealing upon loose gravel I hear the station wagon as it rattles its way home. Her huge, elongated shadow flows across the wall in the wake of the gradually sinking sun. Heels clicking upon the ceramic floor she enters, slamming the door with a bone –shattering thud. ‘Norman, have you been at that fridge, you useless waste of space?’ she bellows. I don’t answer, but merely rattle the chains that keep me tied to the radiator. Sweeping into the room, looking like a wild water hog she takes one look at me on my hands and knees and grunts with satisfaction. ‘Look at the mess you’ve made of my lovely clean floor,’ she says, grabbing a mop and bucket. With quick, flourishing sweeps she cleans the floor to a polished finish. ‘Look what Mummy’s brought,’ she says, flourishing a pretty bag in front of my eyes. She puts it down on the kitchen top, scattering utensils in the process. I know straight away what it contains. Just because I cannot read doesn’t mean I don’t recognize the picture of Mr Hartley’s doll shop. ‘Isn’t it exquisite,’ she says, pulling out, and brandishing yet another pointless porcelain doll. ‘Pity Father couldn’t stay and see my collection,’ she says, running her fingers through long greasy locks. ‘I need to eat. Can’t I have a peep into the fridge?’ For a moment she just looks at me before pushing a bowl of dog food toward me with her feet. ‘You want to eat, then eat like the dog you are.’ ‘Mother, I need real food. Burger and chip’s, ice cream. I want to be ordinary, just like the other kids.’ ‘But your not ordinary are you? You’re a freak of nature you cuckolded, obese piece of meat. And it’s my job to put you on the righteous path.’ ‘But I’m only a little bit over twelve stone. One cream doughnut wouldn’t hurt,’ I say, begging. In one fluid motion she spins round and grasps my neck in a painful grip. I can feel the putrid stench of her breath as she hisses at me, ‘Do you want to disappear up north like father and his tickly heart you cock doodle idiot of a boy?’ I merely shake my head; the tears beginning to flow down my cheeks. I look over into the lounge beyond. I can picture my father there, sitting in his beloved armchair. His paper sprawled upon his lap, a favourite brandy by his side, his head wreathed in smoke from his pipe. That was the father that understood me, just before he disappeared ‘up north. ‘Eating all that rubbish food will make you ill. It will clog your arteries and send you to heart attack country,’ she tells me. Her twenty stone frame was well on the way in my opinion. But I just smile and nod, my eyes elsewhere. Then I spot a large serrated knife, shining dully in the late evening sun. It lies only a few feet away, and must have been knocked down. Picking up her doll Mother walks away toward her prized cabinet. With great care I drag my body along the kitchen floor toward the fallen knife, hoping the chains that hold me will stretch. I’m a few inches to short. I hear her mutter under her breath. Stretching, my fingers brush the handle. I can feel my muscles on breaking point. Hundreds of eyes watch me as my fist clutches at the knife. The steel makes a scraping sound as I drag it to my body. ‘What are you doing, you useless piece of filth?’ she screams, turning round at the sound. ‘Nothing, Mother,’ I croak. My mouth feels like sandpaper. For a moment I can feel I pig-like eyes probing me. Then she returns to re-dressing her display. Taking the knife from behind my back I secrete it under my pullover. Finishing with her display she walks toward me. Tensing, I await my chance. Smiling at me she enters the code for the combination lock on the fridge. Plucking a cream cake from the inside she taunts me as she licks the cream with her lizard-like tongue. A small gobbet of cream falls from the cake onto the floor. With practised ease she licks the cream from her lips, taunting me. Moving away from me I launch myself at her back. Using the last dregs of energy I swing the knife in a swiping arc at her throat. Squealing like a pig she throws me off her back with ease. The knife falls to the floor in a clatter. Turning round, with eyes like chips of ice she looks at me. ‘So, you want to go and join your Father ‘up north,’ she hisses, as a thin stream of blood trickles from her ear. In the eerie dusk light she looks even more repulsive. Terrified, I merely back away, dragging myself backward till my back hits the wall. ‘Don’t kill me,’ I beg, as she waddles toward me. Shutting me eyes I fear the worst. Then on the clean floor she slips on the dollop of fresh cream and finds herself gyrating through the air like an out of shape ballerina. She finally touches down a few inches away from me, her head connecting with the wall with a sickening thud. ‘Mother, are you alright?’ The last cream cake stares at me, taunting me, making me realize perhaps I’m not so hungry after all.
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